


Satisfy me

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fits with Canon, Greg has a lovely singing voice, Hot sticky summer, M/M, They're both very eager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 03:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20687057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: For Techomech, who bid on me in the Rupert Graves birthday auction. Apologies for the delay, and thank you both for bidding on me, and thelovely prompt.





	Satisfy me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [techomech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/techomech/gifts).

Greg likes to clean his apartment by himself. He puts on some music, over the speakers or just on his phone, and lets whatever album he’s been into lately carry him away. When he discovers a new artist he likes, or rediscovers something that brings up happy memories, he plays it at full blast. Some Pavlovian part of his brain starts to actually feel like cleaning when he has his music on extra loud, especially on bright sunny days. Even more so when he has thinking to stubbornly avoid.

Which is how Greg finds himself, parading around in only his underwear, his phone stuck between sweaty skin and bright coloured pants, hovering the carpet with extra vigour, wailing along to his music, face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

“Hi,” he laughs, sheepishly, pulling out his earphones, patting at the hover with his foot just to make it stop. The sudden silence is deafening in contrast, and he winces when he remembers just what he was singing along to.

“Am I?” Mycroft asks, his eyes shining and crinkled at the corners. Stunning and seemingly resistant to the sticky weather.

“Enough to satisfy me?” Greg squeaks, mortified beyond belief, and he watches Mycroft laugh.

“Only a boy,” his grin should be classified as a weapon, it really should be, “is what I was going to say.”

“Hope not,” Greg flaps out, still in awe at the situation, and then he remembers in a rush that he’s dusty, sweaty, wearing proper garish pants. He tries to flatten down his hair and just winces again when he realizes none of it is going to be any use. “Sorry. I’m – so sorry.”

“Quite alright,” Mycroft laughs, put together as always, clean and fresh, impeccable summer suit and looking like no heatwave could touch him if it tried.

“Ehm,” Greg tries to gather his thoughts. Wipes his hands on his pants, drops his phone in the process, and painfully remembers his bad knee on the way back up. Good lord. “What brings you here today?”

“Work, I’m afraid,” Mycroft says, and Greg finally notices the briefcase standing next to Mycroft’s feet on the floor. “A break in the McLaggen case.”

“Oh,” Greg looks around. He’s right at the part of the cleaning where it looks messier than it did when he started. “I’ll just... if you’d give me a minute I’ll get you some tea.”

“If you don’t mind,” Mycroft steps a little closer, eyes flitting about as if he's trying to come to a decision. “It was only a favour to tell you about McLaggen.” Greg swallows as he starts smelling Mycroft cologne, fresh and clean compared to him. “Nothing for us to...” Mycroft pauses for a moment and hooks one finger between his neck and his tie to loosen it a little. “Do anymore,” he finishes.

“He’s – he’s in custody?” Greg manages. Finally. It’s been months. Mycroft nods, and they both sway a little closer. Greg reaches out a hand to grab Mycroft’s tie, but Mycroft steps back. They both look at each other for a long moment. “What about Sherlock?”

“Still locked in McLaggen’s basement,” Mycroft sounds hoarse and hungry. “It might be a while before my people can free him.”

“Can’t take a statement then...” Greg tries not to phrase it as a question, and forgets to worry when Mycroft’s eyes flick down to his lips, and then back up. Intent grey eyes. Not serious anymore. Bright and eager, more like. “They’ll be ok? Do we need to come to the – ”

“Close the door,” Mycroft implores, and Greg realizes the door to the hallway is still open, he’d never closed it after vacuuming his doormat, that’s how Mycroft had managed to sneak up on him. He crosses the room to do it, and then leans back against the door. A giant step indeed. There’s significant space between them now, and the flat is perfectly quiet, until Greg’s phone falls again, out between his boxers and his sticky skin. A sharp slap against the floor, then the noise of _man... boy_ starts coming out through his earphones, audible but only just against the complete lack of background noise. The hot stillness of even the air.

“Need a shower,” Greg remembers, and Mycroft shakes no. Shrugs off his jacket with one elegant shoulder movement, and folds it before placing it on top of his briefcase. Then he places even more distance between them by leaning against the behind him, and Greg’s knees buckle at the intensity of the draw he feels. _You’ve got a nerve to walk away_. Greg steps closer, leaving the safety of the relatively cold door behind him, stepping over his phone and picking up a little speed as he crosses the room. He’s keenly aware of how the roles have flipped. He is not the protagonist anymore when Mycroft doesn’t so much as lean away from the wall. He is not in charge when the music goes _only a boy_, and so he sinks to his knees at _only a toy_, surprising both himself and Mycroft when the cracking noise in his knee doesn’t stop him. He mouths at Mycroft’s trousers, starting at the knee and making his way up with wet hot almost bites. The smell of clean laundry and salty skin is overwhelming, and Greg is dizzy with it long before Mycroft twists his fingers into his hair, and bucks against his face. That is when he moans. He feels Mycroft twitch through the layers of fabric and keeps mouthing at it, hungry for more, while fumbling to untuck shirttails, open buttons and zips and pull down in and out and then the sweet singular relief of skin hot real skin. They both groan at the sensation, Mycroft tightens his fingers, and Greg stops aimlessly trying to cover as much salty skin with his mouth just long enough to tug down Mycroft's trousers to his ankles and look up for permission.

A single nod. And so it begins.


End file.
